Mr. Grace turned and lumbered on a little way. Again he halted. “‘Arf a mo’, Peter. Wot’s the gime? Tell us.”
“Did you see that tall lean man, standing outside the garden of the empty house?”
“May a’ done. Thought h’I saw two on ‘em, but maybe I’m seein’ double—- H’oh yes, h’I saw old Tapeworm.”
“He’s the plain-clothes man. I know, ‘cause I heard him talking with my father. My father said he’d give my uncle up, if the plain-clothes man would trust him and not make mother nervous.”
“And wery friendly o’ your pa, h’I’m sure. Let family love kintinue—— But where’s this uncle o’ yours as did the swipin’? Come darn to facts, me friend. Where h’is ‘e nar?”
Peter’s answer was like the beating wings of a moth, rapid but making hardly any sound. “He’s hidden in the garden of the empty house.”
“Jee-rusalem!” Mr. Grace whistled, cleared his throat once or twice and spat. Then he started laughing. “Leave ‘im ter me, me ‘earty. I’ll settle wiv the spotter.”
He pulled his horse round. But when Peter saw what was happening, he gave a small imploring whisper. “Oh, Mr. Grace, please, please don’t go back yet; we’ve got to think something out.”
“Think somefing h’out! Crikey! I’ve thought. H’I’m drunk, me lad, and when h’I’m drunk h’I think quicklike. You get under the seat and think o’ somefing sad, somefing as’ll keep yer quiet—think o’ the chap as died o’ small-specks.”
Peter took his friend’s advice. Oh, what a Christmas Eve he was having! He had known Mr. Grace both drunk and sober—sober, t’is true, very rarely. But sobriety is a relative term, according to your man. Mr. Grace sober was afraid of the law; Mr. Grace drunk was game for anything.